Jenna nodded quickly. Her eyes darted between us—worried, uncertain, too smart not to understand exactly what she was seeing.
"Yeah. Okay." She grabbed her coat from the hook. "I'll just?—"
She didn't finish. Just left, footsteps hurrying toward the exit.
Ben had already disappeared. I hadn't even noticed him leave. One second he'd been slumped near the register holding his jaw, the next—gone.
The door swung shut behind Jenna.
We were alone.
Rhys guided me to the counter. His hand settled warm and steady against my lower back—grounding, protective—as I leaned against the stainless steel edge. The metal felt cool through my shirt. Solid. Real.
He moved with quiet efficiency. Found the first aid kit beneath the register. Pulled out antiseptic, cotton pads, medical tape. Arranged everything on the counter like he'd done this before. Like violence and its aftermath were just another routine to follow.
Maybe they were.
The overhead lights hummed too loud in the silence. He reached up and switched them off. Flipped on the small task light instead. Softer. Less harsh against my throbbing head.
"Look at me."
I lifted my chin. Met his eyes in the dimness.
He opened the antiseptic with careful fingers. Dampened a cotton pad. The sharp chemical smell made my nose wrinkle.
"This will sting."
His hand cupped my jaw. Tilted my face toward the light again. The pad touched my split lip, and I hissed, jerking back reflexively.
He steadied me. His thumb stroked once across my cheekbone—gentle, grounding—before he continued cleaning the wound. Each touch deliberate. Reverent. Like I was something precious that might shatter if he pressed too hard.
I watched him work. Watched the furrow between his brows. The tight set of his mouth. The way his hands—those same hands that had wrapped around my father's throat with lethal intent—trembled slightly as they tended my injuries.
I should be scared.
Any rational person would be.
I'd watched him nearly kill someone with his bare hands. Watched the cold calculation in his eyes. The utter absence of hesitation or regret.
But fear didn't come. Only a bone-deep certainty that settled into my chest and refused to leave: Rhys Ackerman would never hurt me. Would die before letting anyone else hurt me. Would burn the whole world down if it meant keeping me safe.
He finished with my lip. Set the bloodied cotton aside. His hands came up to frame my face—so careful, so gentle—thumbs resting against my cheekbones.
"He won't come near you again."
Not a promise this time. Deeper than that. More fundamental.
A vow.
The kind men made once and carried to their graves.
I believed him.
Chapter 30
Rhys
The bruise spreading across her cheekbone made something violent twist through my chest. Dark purple already. Would be worse tomorrow. The split in her lip—still seeping slightly despite the antiseptic—sent rage coiling hot and vicious through my veins.
